


A Little Less Conversation

by bobross



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bodily Functions, Bondage, Flashback Fluff, Genital Mutilation, Gore, Imprisonment, M/M, Non-consensual everything, Omegaverse, Rape, Sherlock Fails Crisis Counseling Forever, Squick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobross/pseuds/bobross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"We're going to play a game, Johnny-boy!  Oh, don't look like that—you don't even have to do anything this time.  No bombs, no gottle o' geering.  You just sit tight and look sexy for the cameras."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slow-moving WIP for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=85065877#t85065877) on the kinkmeme. The version being posted here has been cleaned up and edited from the original.
> 
>  **Heed the warnings, please.** Read responsibly and enjoy!

**Now.**

There were no blinking vests this time, no overly dramatic laser sights. The messenger jostled her weight from side to side, parroting the voice in her earpiece and trying to look anywhere but directly at John.

Her name was Dana. A rounded fellow omega, a mother of four, with freckled arms and mascara running down her face. She relayed the facts quickly, under orders. Her voice trembled with a distant sort of shock; a removal which meant she didn't quite trust her own eyes or ears. Maybe she thought she was going to wake up any moment. John almost hoped she was right.

_"We're going to play a game, Johnny-boy! Oh, don't look like that—you don't even have to do anything this time. No bombs, no gottle o' geering. You just sit tight and look sexy for the cameras._

_"—Oh, and play nice with this portly cow, or I'll start hacking her pretty little girls' limbs off. One! by! one!"_

John worked his jaw in furious silence while Dana stuttered the words out. Clearly she was already operating under a similar line of threats, and vocalizing it was just an added cruelty.

He glanced up briefly at the nearest camera, knowing Moriarty would be watching, and forced his mouth into motion. "It's all right, Dana," he offered quietly. "Just do as he says. You'll be all right."

She looked at him blankly, still somewhere far off. She didn't trust him, either. Reassurance coming from a prisoner would be suspect all on its own, but when that prisoner was a) stark naked and b) trussed up in a leather collar and cuffs, assurances sounded like plain lunacy.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Now.**

Dana stayed only long enough to deliver her script to one of the cameras, then exited the room as quickly as she came. John didn't see anyone else when the door opened, but the lock snicked into place after it closed. At least one guard, then, or maybe a sentry of some kind.

The message was short and surprisingly bland. John supposed the theatrics were all in the setting, for now. A crying woman stammering to the open air and a shackled man seething in silence nearby. The visual and the realization of what it meant would be shock enough for any observer, or some such mad twaddle.

John didn't bother trying to preserve his modesty, though the embarrassment prickled hot in his belly and sent a flush racing up his neck. For one thing, he doubted a little nudity would be the worst part of this latest round of imprisonment. For another, the leather cuffs were anchored to his collar on short leashes: too short to allow him to cross his arms, and certainly far too restrictive to give him access to his genitals. The most comfortable thing he could do was to clasp his hands against his chest. _Like some damned Virgin Mary carving,_ he scowled inwardly.

He had a bit of reprieve from the rankling irritation of it, listening to Dana's message. Her fearful quivering didn't translate well to menace, but John found that if he closed his eyes, he could almost see Moriarty's slippery smirks and tics instead.

_"Heeey, kids! Welcome to Papa Jim's Playhouse. As you can see, today we have a very special guest with us. His name is John. Wave to the cameras, John! Aww, isn't he a good playmate already. So pissy, so precious. He must make his alpha so **hard**."_

The reference to Sherlock wasn't so much a surprise, but now John wondered where, exactly, this footage was being transmitted. Was it a live stream on his blog? Would it be a video posted to Sherlock's website? Was half the Met sitting around staring at his scars, his legs, his arse—the alphas among them visualizing Sherlock drilling him into a mattress?

He lifted his chin, steeled his gaze straight ahead. He'd be damned if he'd let Moriarty see him squirm, never mind anyone else.

_"Speaking of his alpha—I do hope you're up to a rematch, my dear. The pool was so-o anticlimactic, and you fell completely flat, anyway. You have one hour to find your first clue. Don't be stupid, or my guest will get the naughty switch, and then you'll have until his voice gives out to catch my interest again. Toodles!"_

When Dana was gone, John let his eyes flicker up and around at the cameras. There were three of them, high on the walls and conveniently placed so as to cover every angle of the room. The little red lights weren't as dramatic as laser-sights, but a chilly sort of discomfort settled into John's gut as he realized he had no way of knowing whether the transmission had ended with Dana's departure. The feed could still be live.

He took stock of his prison's contents, much as he had when he'd first woken. A bed set against the wall opposite the door, all plain metal slats and clean coverlets. A supply of bottled water and boxes of plain crackers. A plastic bucket in one corner, with a single roll of toilet tissue nearby.

All in all, it was fairly ominous. John was clearly meant to be here for a while.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Now.**

Time dragged its heels. There were no windows, no clocks, and no one disturbed the door after Dana left. For lack of anything better to do, John prowled the room a while, looking for possible avenues of escape and trying to figure out where he might be. The former was probably hopeless, given that the cameras were definitely on, even if they weren't broadcasting. The latter was a little more fruitful, though the suspicion that he was being held in an abandoned medical facility wasn't much help. Water damage at the corners, cracks in the cold tiles, exposed pipes near the doorway. Nothing exceptionally useful to him.

John sighed in aggravation and sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands curled into fists at his chest. His neck and bad shoulder were beginning to ache from the way he was inclined to slouch with his arms tucked up like this. He imagined Sherlock was already racing rings around the Met, probably driving Lestrade insane with his absolute refusal to do anything by the book. Truth be told, John found more comfort in Sherlock's single-minded jealousy at the moment.

Off that thought, John couldn't help a fond liptwitch. Sherlock would be worried, of course, but that simmering possessive streak would manifest first and strongest. God help anyone who got in his way with legal trivia or not-quite-quick-enough thought processes. It occurred to John that he ought to be concerned for his own health, or more profoundly galled—Christ's sake, he was practically Pauline in peril—but mostly he was just tired. Probably a combination of adrenaline letdown and the dregs of whatever drug cocktail had been used to knock him out.

He cracked his knuckles under his chin and realized, rather belatedly, that he wouldn't be able to put the toilet tissue to its intended use.

Jesus, but he hoped poor Dana and her kids were off the hook.


	2. Chapter 2

**Now.**

John was no expert on bondage devices, but he had the uncomfortable suspicion that his restraints were custom-made. The sizing was a little too perfect. The materials looked and felt a bit too lush. Besides that, the miniature padlocks on the cuffs were inscribed with _JHW_. He was willing to bet a month's wages the lock at his throat was the same.

He carefully inspected the D-rings and leads connecting collar to cuffs. The leather was soft but sturdy; the stitching was tight and didn't seem inclined to give. It was unlikely he'd be able to tear the contraption off, no matter how hard he yanked. He'd have to keep an eye out for a sharp object, or at least something he could pare down to a keen edge.

John pulled the topmost blanket off the bed and finagled it round his shoulders, huddling a bit with the sudden contrast of contained body heat and chilly tiles under his feet. Some primal part of him instantly relaxed, tension uncoiling all along his back, and he scoffed inwardly at himself. Much as he disliked prancing about in the buff before God and country, it wasn't as though a sodding blanket made him any less vulnerable. He could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. 

_Perhaps you'd prefer something in safety-orange, John?_

_Not all of us are bloody exhibitionists, Sherlock._

To be fair, Sherlock wasn't an active exhibitionist. He just didn't think anything of shuffling around the flat in his dressing gown—or a bedsheet, on occasion—at all hours, before any manner of company. ("Easy access, no?" he'd retorted after John's last reproach on the matter of bedclothes substituting for actual clothes. It wasn't an invitation, coming from Sherlock, but Sherlock had tried to prove his point later on by fucking John to incoherence over the sofa. And after, smugly: "Good job I wasn't wearing anything complicated.")

John exhaled, swiftly dispelling that line of thinking. He eyed the bottled water and boxes of crackers sitting neatly against the adjacent wall. Contemplating base human needs felt too much like surrender, at the moment, and he wasn't ready to yield to the rule of threes just yet. Even a staunch pragmatist had his pride.

With a little luck (or better than he'd had today, at any rate), the threes wouldn't be an issue at all. Either he'd engineer his own escape, or Sherlock would track him down. His pride would prefer the former; pragmatism predicted the latter.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Then.**

John had gotten used to Sherlock's habit of vocalizing random deductions of a personal nature, whether or not the setting was appropriate. An acquired taste-or-tolerance, that. It helped (a very little) that Sherlock wasn't usually trying to be invasive or malicious. He simply _knew_ things, and knowing them, he had to inevitably share them. (In as dramatic or deadpan a manner as possible.)

Their beginning was a far different story.

"You tense whenever Anderson comes near."

"What?" John half-turned to follow Sherlock's indicative nod. His eyes settled on the beaky forensics tech just visible in the next room over. He'd not spoken to the man personally yet; this was only the second time John had been to a crime scene with Sherlock, and he was trying to stay out of the established adversaries' way. "I don't... what?"

Sherlock made a mildly impatient noise low in his throat. John fought the urge to whirl back round; Sherlock had already closed the scant distance between them, silent and smooth. His voice rumbled quietly somewhere above John's ear. "Practically screams 'biological incompatibility', doesn't he? His wife's either too dull to notice or too barren to care. Tell me, do his pheromones make you nauseous, or cause physical pain of any kind? Or is it just an instinctive flinch?"

John ran his tongue over his lower lip, trying to work up enough saliva for speech. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do," Sherlock replied dismissively. "He's an alpha with tainted genetic stock and the IQ of an average garden trowel. You're an omega with a functioning nose and superior taste in companions."

John froze. No one was close enough to have overheard the careless "outing", but it made his gut clench with something like violation. He turned slowly and deliberately until he faced Sherlock. They were so close, he nearly had to cross his eyes to focus on Sherlock's lean, angular face. "Care to explain that one?" he said tersely.

"Well, you're here with me, aren't you?"

He valiantly resisted the urge to sock the insufferable _smug_ off that mouth. "That can change."

Sherlock's smirk faded into something more inscrutable. Either he'd figured out that John was absolutely serious about leaving, or he couldn't resist another round of showing off, because he launched straight into yet another (albeit quieter, thank God) verbal barrage. He picked John apart head to toe, unraveling every minute link in his chain of reasoning: the way John reacted to other people, the scents on him or distinct lack thereof—"I've a very sensitive nose, John, especially for an alpha"—even his bland choices in wardrobe. Sherlock painted a picture so detailed, it made John dizzy.

"Although," Sherlock said in conclusion, cool eyes gone narrow and keen, "there is a great deal about you which would seem to conflict with my conclusion." He gave an elegant shrug. "I know I'm right, but I'm also not surprised that everyone else is content to look at you and see an ordinary beta." He left the rest unsaid. _Everyone else is an idiot._

John could only stare at him for a long series of heartbeats. "You really are amazing," he said finally. "And I will break your sensitive alpha nose if you breathe a word of that to anyone else."

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Now.**

Voluntary refusal of food and water was one thing, but the bucket in the corner became an urgent need all too soon. Careful aim was key. Next time he would remember to tear off a bit of tissue first and set it down for an awkward, hands-free pat dry. (Or maybe next time he wouldn't drink so much tea before a kidnapping.)

The restraints weren't chafing much, at least. Stretching out face-up on the bed eased the burning pressure in his neck and shoulders. John was surprised to find it wasn't bothersome in the same way that eating or drinking would be. He burrowed under the blanket, rested his hands on his chest, and staunchly ignored the cameras.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke. He was curled on his side, the coverlet shoved down and tangled around his legs. He was indecent. He had to piss again. His stomach muttered emptily at him.

John let out a soft breath and tried to stretch the kinks out of his neck. He didn't wish for the bomb vest, not really, but Christ—at least he'd been up and moving for that.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Now.**

The lock on the door snicked softly, alerting John a moment before it swung open to admit Dana. A shadow moved behind her, out of sight too quickly for John to get a look at the owner. Guard probably. Moriarty himself wasn't likely to be anywhere nearby.

Dana shuffled forward only far enough to allow the door to close behind her. Her arms were folded, her shoulders hunched. Her eyes were reddened but dry.

John noticed, now, that she was wearing plaid slippers. _Taken abruptly from her home, maybe, but not by brute force—she wouldn't have kept the slippers if she'd been dragged._ It was both annoying and comforting that his internal analyses so often sounded like Sherlock these days.

She didn't say anything. Didn't look at him. John stood by the bed and watched her with hooded sympathy, waiting. Silent.

Long minutes drifted by and there was still no message. John decided he was long-past tired of the passivity. He broke the silence with care, keeping his tone calm and professional. "Have you had anything to eat or drink since you were brought here, Dana?"

She blinked at him, startled, and her dark eyes darted to the provisions against the wall. Her voice emerged a hoarse croak. "A little water."

John followed her line of sight and nodded firmly. "Right. Go on, then. You must be thirsty."

Immediately she balked. "No, I—I can't. " Her mouth twisted with fear, and John knew she was thinking of her children. Four of them, little girls (all girls, maybe?) held tight in a stranger's grasp. Or perhaps going about their daily lives, unknowing of the danger. Had she even been allowed to speak with them since her abduction?

He marshaled himself, forced his voice to remain even. "I imagine Mister _Moriarty_ has already tuned in." The name tasted like a curse. He nodded to Dana's earpiece and shot a look at one of the cameras. "If he doesn't want you to drink, he can bloody well say so."

Dana hesitated. Her gaze flicked down to the coverlet John clutched round himself, to the restraints lurking mostly out of sight. Apparently there was no hissing voice in her ear; within moments she fetched up one of the bottles and cracked it open.

While she was thus occupied, John leaned over awkwardly and collected his own bottle from beside the pillow. He'd been sipping it down, rationing it without conscious decision. It was already half gone. "You can sit, if you like," he offered, shifting to the end of the mattress and rearranging his blanket. "We've not been properly introduced. I'm John Watson." A sour sort of smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gently rattled the cuffs. "Not actually into this sort of thing."

He didn't expect her to laugh, and she didn't. She did, however, perch at the head of the bed, as far from him as she could. She clutched the water bottle in both hands and stared at it. "Dana Forinash," she said quietly. "Thanks. For the water."

John merely nodded. _You're welcome_ sounded stupid even in his head. So did the rest, actually, but he had to say it anyway: "I should apologize. I wish you weren't caught up in this mess. You and your kids."

"They'll be all right if I do everything he says," she said dully, by rote. The tearful tremors of their first meeting had subsided, to be replaced by a resigned sort of apathy. Shock, still. Just a sleeping variant.

"Right." John wanted to believe her, too. "Right, they absolutely will." He paused, choosing his words carefully. He couldn't afford to be unclear or uncertain about this. "Dana, I want you to do whatever he says. Honestly. Even if it hurts me."

She took in a deep breath, still refusing to look at him. "Look, John, I... I don't know what's going on here, with you and... him. And this other bloke, whoever he is on the other end of the cameras." Her voice wobbled around the words. "But I'll shoot you myself before I let him hurt my girls." A beat of strained silence. "Sorry."

It was a day for absurd apologies. John couldn't think of anything to say to that other than "okay". And it really, really was.

The tension broke, warped, and ratcheted when Dana's spine stiffened and the blank terror came into her eyes. She jumped off the mattress as though burned. John wouldn't bother getting up for Moriarty's rambling this time.

_"Tea-time's over, John-boy. Just sit there and look pathetic, mmkay? I've got to have some **words** with your owner."_

John said nothing in response. He rubbed his face slowly with both hands—it was better than the forced praying-maiden position, even if only for a few moments.

The message Dana directed at the nearest camera was mostly confusing. There was little context given. John was pleased and rather proud to hear that Sherlock was apparently staying a step ahead of Moriarty's game. From what he could parse, Moriarty was communicating with Sherlock outside of this room, as well. John truly was nothing more than the incentive, forbidden to speak or be in any way useful. He didn't even know whether his naked body and the room's sparse contents would help Sherlock in finding him. Rescuing him. The fucking prayerful maiden, indeed.

It was irritating. It was _boring_. God, but he sounded like Sherlock. This had to be at least a small fraction of what drove the man to his restless slumps and mania between cases.

On a whim, John steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips, much as Sherlock did when he was simmering a light data-broth in that sterling tureen between his ears. Somewhere, he hoped Sherlock would see it and know he was thinking of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Then.**

It was true enough; Anderson smelled absolutely _wrong_. Such a condition could be the result of a congenital disorder, or an unfortunate side-effect of medication. As a physician, John was perfectly capable of curiosity, even sympathy—no wonder the man seemed so prickly, with his body working against him at the most primal level of social interaction.

Curiosity and sympathy aside, though, John would carve out his own reproductive organs with a scoop before he'd let that knot anywhere near his arse. He had to wonder whether Sally pinched her nose shut while fucking Anderson into his marriage bed. Maybe fellow alphas didn't find the scent so off-putting, since they weren't wired to bear offspring?

"I find Anderson off-putting because he's an imbecile," Sherlock stated flatly, when later questioned on the subject. "And Sergeant Donovan finds genetic anomalies stimulating, to judge by her previous choices in bedpartners. If she ever sires children with one of them, I expect stillbirth or sterility."

John winced inwardly. Knowing Sherlock, he'd probably spoken those sentiments aloud to Sally herself at some point. "So it's not just alphas with her, then?"

"She prefers us, but she'll make an exception if the abnormality is intriguing enough." Sherlock made minute adjustments to his microscope, one hand busily scribbling shorthand notes. "I did briefly speculate on the likelihood of her propositioning me at some point, but I believe that danger is well past. Hand me the sheep marrow."

John poked through the packages on the table until he found the right one. "You said she likes anomalies." He waited a beat before clarifying, "You're not an anomaly, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, inexplicably pleased. "Of course I am."

John cast his eyes heavenward. "Well, yeah, okay, but not like—it's not like Anderson. You don't smell... wrong."

"Mm." Sherlock paused in his work and flicked an unreadable gaze at his flatmate. "How do I smell to you, John? It's useful to hear a secondary impression from an unbiased source."

John blinked. "Er. Like an alpha?" He sensed Sherlock gearing up for another _perfectly-sound-analysis_ snipe and raised a hand to stave it off. "All right, give us a tick. It's... very strong alpha. Dominant. Aggressive. High pheromone production, mostly unconscious. You can mark a room just by walking in—if this were the good old days, you'd be pissing on the doorframes." 

Sherlock gave an affronted snort, but his stillness betrayed his interest. John sniffed the air delicately, falling back on his schooling to parse and categorize the scents he lived with every day. He continued, "Dominant, not threatening. Aggression without any of the usual associated markers—fear, pain, arousal. I'd call it a hunting scent, but you're not hunting."

"I'm always hunting," Sherlock corrected grandly. "I'm just not interested in the things most people are."

John glanced over the packets of assorted animal marrow between them. "Obviously."

The dry quip went ignored. "Really, that was surprisingly astute, John, especially given your level of exposure," Sherlock mused. "People are usually slower to separate scent-markers from extraneous knowledge of the subject. From now on, I'll need you to take notes and report fluctuations during differing circumstances. Be very specific."

By the end, Sherlock had gone back to peering at his slide of marrow, and so missed John's initial expression. Probably for the best, that. "You want me to... smell you. And take notes."

"Yes, as detailed as you can. And include your own response, if you would."

John felt as though he'd entered the conversation halfway in, somehow. "Response?"

"Yes, _response_. Pity I don't have a suitably reliable alpha or beta on hand to do the same, the comparisons could be mildly interesting."

Ah. That sort of response. John drummed his fingers lightly against the tabletop. "No."

"John."

"No, Sherlock, that's a bit personal for an experimental whim."

Sherlock exhaled without looking away from the microscope. "Your suppressants don't completely mask your scent from me, John, but they do make it rather difficult to get the finer impressions. Don't be boring."

 _Breaking out the big insults now_ , John thought with an inward eyeroll. "I didn't say I wouldn't help you, to a point, I'm just not willing to document my own biochemical minutiae in the process. I'll give you my very best clinical evaluations, all right? You're not the only one with a sensitive nose around here." Sherlock made a derisive noise, but the exact target was anyone's guess. John ignored it. "Speaking of which—now I’m curious. How do I smell to you?"

Sherlock's mobile suddenly chimed with an incoming text. He fished it out and scanned the message. "Lestrade has a case for us. Two beheaded corpses with the heads sewn back on wrong."

John opened his mouth and closed it again. The DI certainly did know how to get Sherlock's attention. "Did he define 'wrong'?"

"No, but one can only hope they're at least backwards or switched." Sherlock's deft hands darted about, shutting down the microscope and covering the open samples. "Put the rest of the marrow in the fridge, would you? Crisper would be best."

John gathered up the vacuum-sealed packets and deposited them neatly above the crisper. "Third shelf, Sherlock, that's the agreement."

"Yes, yes, fine." Sherlock even sounded vaguely agreeable. "Coat, John, come on. I want to get there before Lestrade's buffoons pick the scene to uselessness. Why on earth _you_ couldn't have chosen to specialize in forensic medicine instead is beyond me, it would be so much more convenient..."

John kept half an ear on Sherlock's buzzing and went through his pre-case leaving-the-flat checklist (appliances off? check; volatile substances and apparatus stabilized? check, as far as he knew; illegal substances and objects out of sight? double-check). If the place was tossed or burned down while they were out, he could at least say he'd made the effort. Satisfied, he did up his shoes and grabbed his jacket.

—And was halted by Sherlock's hands closing firmly round his shoulders, rooting him in place. Time seemed to slow to a series of sluggish impressions: Sherlock's face bent low beside his; an audible inhalation, soft and ghostly, close to his collar; long fingers pressing warmth through his shirt. For an instant, John froze like a deer caught in the open.

Sherlock pulled away and examined John's startled expression, one brow cocked. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "To answer your question, John," he rumbled succinctly, when John had quite forgotten he'd asked anything at all, "you smell ready. Without fail." He turned in a whirl of coat and scarf, bounded for the door and beyond. "Hurry up!"

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Now.**

Sans window or watch, John had no way to gauge the time passing. He could sketch a rough estimate based on his water intake so far—more than three days, probably less than a full week—but the monotony was slowly driving him round the bend.

Picking at the restraints got him precisely nowhere. As expected, the leather and stitching were first-rate and disinclined to give ground. Careful searching for glass shards or broken bits of tile yielded nothing. The screws in the bedframe and vent covers were rusted tight; he'd checked them all, though there was no way of doing so surreptitiously. It was less about surprise and more about noncompliance. The principle of the thing.

Besides that, mangling Moriarty's expensive custom-tailored leather trappings would let him work off some well-earned frustration. If only he could find a sharp edge.

He'd reverted to rote physical exercise as a means of passing the time, at least for a short spell. Pushups were right out, between with the dodgy shoulder and the restraints. Crunches would have to do. John knew his middle had softened a bit, but he had over a decade of active military service to his name. His core hadn't forgotten its steel. His body was trained to take orders right along with the rest of him.

 _I'll have a solid fifty, soldier! And they had better_ crunch _, or so help me, you'll be on latrine duty—_ bucket _duty for the next week._

Ridiculous. He was on camera, half-starved, absolutely starkers, and running impromptu drills. Granted, he'd scaled back his demand on himself—he'd never manage two hundred punishing crunches, and he wasn't deluded enough to try—but it still sounded like a bloody initiation prank. John spent the first dozen sit-ups trying not to snicker aloud. God only knew what the viewers at home were thinking.

Operation Bored Crunches could only last so long, determination and discipline aside. Upwards of a week without food or adequate water intake was taking a definite toll. He was shaking by the time he finished those last few curl-ups, and it was all he could do to prop himself against the side of the bed instead of flopping to the floor afterward. _Barely fifty, Watson? I'll have your stars._

John swiped his current water bottle from beside his pillow and downed one long, glorious gulp. He'd worked up a sweat with the exertion. His head was spinning. The chilly floor had numbed his rear even through the blanket beneath him, but everything else ached. He wrestled a corner of the blanket over his lap as an afterthought. 

He felt wretched. Maybe the crunches hadn't been such a fabulous idea in his state. John tried reminding himself that he'd survived worse, but thoughts of sun and sand and forty-four degrees Celsius weren't exactly comforting. A small sip, another, and he tucked the bottle back under his pillow. He couldn't afford to fall off the rationing wagon now.

Dehydration meant less urine output, but there was still the matter of physical waste. John had held out as long as possible before caving to the inevitable. The relief itself was humiliating; the inability to clean himself properly after made him sick with shame. He'd draped his pillowcase over the bucket to try to contain the smell.

The cameras winked carelessly from their perches above, covering every nook, every angle.

 _No one's watching this but Sherlock,_ John told himself resolutely, wiping cool sweat from his brow. Lestrade, too, maybe. Mycroft, almost certainly.

And Moriarty. God, but he could happily break the bastard's jaw off right about now. Failing that, he could happily imagine Sherlock doing it instead.

John exhaled and pushed himself to his feet, fetching the blanket up loosely. Nudity really was one of the least concerns, as he'd expected. He swayed in place a moment, light-headed, tremors racing up his legs as the dull void in his gut gave a vengeful twist. Half-starved was tripping toward actually-starved by now. Nearly a third of the way, if the rule held true. _Three minutes sans air, three days sans water, three weeks sans food._ More crude estimates. Close enough for concern.

His eyes found the boxes stacked against the wall next to the water supply. Plain crackers, innocuous and so far untouched. He'd held off thirst as long as common sense would allow, but three-and-a-half empty bottles now mocked his resolve.

Really, what would he prove by wasting away into uselessness? How could he possibly help himself if he grew too weak to move (to think, to run, to fight)? And he spent enough time pushing food in Sherlock's direction; it was probably some kind of hypocrisy to deny his own basic requirements like this.

(Thinking of Sherlock was probably the last straw, John would later realize. They were well past day three, at which point John would've put his foot down and bullied Sherlock into a bit of food and rest. No doubt Sherlock was running himself into the ground proper, with Moriarty's game dangling before him and no nagging doctor-turned-lover hauling him to heel every once in a while. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade—and Mycroft, to some extent—could be counted upon for damage control, but John very much doubted any of their concern would penetrate Sherlock's single-minded fervency. He'd be strung out and exhausted, mind burning through every bit of his body's reserves.

And of course, he would have noticed John's reluctance to eat. John could even picture him using that as an excuse, all glaring eyes and curled lip: _"John is_ starving _, do you think I have time to waste on trivialities like food?"_ )

Right. That did it, then. John wobbled his way to the wall and settled down on the floor beside the crackers, blanket wrapped round himself to ward off the tiles' leeching chill. He would figure out a rationing system later; right now he was going to nibble his way through as many crackers as it took to drive off the hollow ache under his ribs. The nearest box made its way into his lap, ripped open in seconds. His fingers fumbled with a plastic cracker-sleeve.

"Curry, Sherlock," John announced abruptly, without once glancing up at the cameras. Whether it was a request or a command would be anyone's guess. Hopefully Sherlock would take it as both.

_Dinner's on you when you get me out of here. (You **will** get me out of here.)_

_Eat something already, I'm not going anywhere. (...Shut up, I'm allowed to worry about you, too.)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Then.**

John refused to keep literal notes, much to Sherlock's disgruntlement. "Eighty percent of my blog posts already revolve around you and your work," John told him. "I'm not keeping a bloody pheromone-diary for you, as well."

"Closer to ninety-five percent, actually," Sherlock retaliated, "and your sensationalized write-ups aren't nearly as important as a meticulous, dedicated scent-profile could be."

"Do it yourself. You're the observant one."

That got him a withering stare. "Any profile I composed for myself would be subject to extreme bias and therefore useless."

"Yes, you've said that before, about bias. I'm not sure why you think I'm your best bet for an objective voice." John leaned against the worktop and loosely folded his arms, watching Sherlock poke the latest in a series of owl pellets. "I'm your flatmate and your friend. If you want a completely neutral profile of any kind, you ought to bring in a third party. Total stranger, no prior impressions to contaminate your results."

Sherlock pried the pellet apart with long, sharp tweezers. "You're a doctor. You're perfectly capable of objectivity."

"I'm also off the clock at the moment, which means I'm not obligated to chart anything." John turned away to putter with the tea. "Besides, I've yet to smell much beyond your baseline."

"Mm. It has been dreadfully dull, hasn't it? An entire array of routine murders and thefts, nothing particularly inspired—certainly no one worth my attention." Sherlock sighed grouchily. "I haven't even given myself more than a paper cut or a contact burn in the past two weeks."

No significant pain-markers for John to sample, in other words. "That's meant to be a bad thing?" John muttered over the kettle.

Sherlock ignored him. "Even my experiments are obstinately mundane, of late. Must the whole world conspire to be tedious at once?"

"It isn't the whole world's job to entertain you, Sherlock, sorry to say. Do you want tea?"

"It's your job, and you're patently miserable at it. —Tea, yes."

"My job is to pay half the bills, thanks. Making sure you live to be a self-absorbed prat another day is sort of a hobby."

"Dedicated hobbyists document their work," Sherlock sniffed primly.

John nudged a dissected pellet aside and sat a steaming cup next to Sherlock's elbow. "I'm not taking notes. The end. Drink your tea."

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Then.**

"How many times have I told him _not_ to run off on his own?" Lestrade shot John a querulous look. "He could at least bring you along with."

John responded with a quiet snort. "Don't give me too much credit. He's naturally immune to most strains of common sense."

"You don't say." Lestrade peered carefully around the corner and signaled his people. "Right. Let's get this over with."

Twenty minutes later, the illegal antique runners' house-turned-hideout was neatly sewn up with caution tape, and half a dozen suspects were in cuffs. Despite Sherlock's general disparagement, Lestrade's people were pretty efficient with the noose. It helped when the criminals were too stupid (or too clever) to put up a fight.

Sherlock didn't show. John had expected him to come strolling out of some hidden cranny afterward, all snide satisfaction, but the constables were packing the suspects into cars and Sherlock was still missing. Directing business on the other side of the property, Lestrade caught John's eye and gave him a small, wordless headshake. No Sherlock. 

John frowned. Why would Sherlock lead them all to the crime scene and then take off again, without even stopping to gloat?

"John," Sally called out, waving him over. The corners of her mouth were twitched upward. "Thought you should know, the ringleader said something about a 'posh wanker' stuffed in the boot of their car." She caught John's expression and amended, "A stupid posh wanker, but a live one." 

"Brilliant, thanks." John let out a long breath, annoyed and relieved. "Suppose I had better go and rescue him. Where's the car?"

She nodded to the alley leading round the side of the house. "Parked back there. All yours, Sir Lancelot."

The car in question wasn't parked so much as dumped. It sat in a clump of overgrown weeds, cannibalized for its tires and most of the front end. John glanced over the shorter grass by the rear bumper and couldn't see any obvious signs of struggle. _Not obvious to **you**_ , Sherlock would say.

He rapped his knuckles conversationally on the boot as he passed. "Have you out in a moment, Guinevere. Tell me you didn't delete all of Camelot?"

Silence. Sherlock was probably busy fuming with the indignity of it all. He'd be a trial to live with for the next few days or so. John pulled the release lever and called out again. "Sherlock? All right in there?"

No answer. Reflexive concern stirred under the annoyance. If this was Sherlock in a determined sulk, John was going to shut him in the boot and leave him. He tugged the lid up. "Sher—?"

Scent hit first. Alpha-grade aggression, strung with acrid pain-markers that had the hair at John's nape standing straight up. Sherlock lay curled in the filthy compartment, the upturned side of his face tacky with blood. His wrists were bound in front. One was probably fractured, judging by the swelling. He blinked dazedly in the light. 

"Damn," John muttered, fishing his penlight out of his pocket. "Lestrade will have you in a sling after this, you realize."

"Belts," Sherlock rasped. He shied away as John leaned in to check his pupils. "Check their belts."

"Right, we'll do that. Hold still."

Sherlock gave an impatient grunt and tried to push himself upright, with limited success. "White thread—traces of rust. I only realized after I was inside."

John clasped Sherlock's forearm gently to get a better look at his purpling wrist. "Stop that, I'll cut you loose in a moment. What's the sum of the atomic weights of the metalloids?"

After a brief pause, Sherlock snorted derisively. "The question demonstrates an obvious lack of familiarity with the subject. Doesn't it defeat the purpose if you don't know the answer?"

"I read enough online to manage, thank you," John lobbied back neatly, flicking out his knife to free Sherlock's wrists. "You don't know who the prime minister is, and you can't be arsed to give me the date, either. So out with it. The general range, at least."

Sherlock shot him a look that fell somewhere between surprised and disgruntled. With a low exhale, he rattled off the numbers, adding peevishly, "Although there are imbeciles camped at both ends of that rather wide and indeterminate spectrum."

"Naturally." John pursed his lips and carefully gripped Sherlock's good arm. "Up you get. X-rays after you've harassed Lestrade about the belts."

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Now.**

John startled awake, hands already flying up in defense before they jerked to a painful halt at the ends of the straps. He blinked, exhaled shortly through his nose as the world unblurred around him. His neck and shoulders throbbed. "Christ. Sorry."

Dana looked at him a little warily, having backed up a hasty step. "No, sorry," she said finally. "I'm sorry. My fault. Should'n't've woken you. Just seemed rude to stand 'round and stare."

 _Rude._ Stuck with a naked man in a space rank with shit and piss, and the poor woman was trying not to be rude. John squashed a bit of mad laughter and hauled himself upright, tugging his blanket more firmly over his lap. The thing was wrinkled and filthy. Much like he felt. "It's all right. My time's completely off. I could be napping through tea, for all I know."

"Just gone past eight."

"In the evening?"

"Morning."

"I don't suppose you know the date?" John asked, and tried not to be too disappointed when she shook her head. The water-bottle estimates would have to do. "Have they been feeding you, at least?"

"Chips, mostly. A bad takeaway curry."

John's mouth watered. "I think I'd settle for the worst curry in Brick Lane." Chicken tikka, maybe. He exhaled, wondering if it sounded as hollow as he was. Nodding at the wall of provisions, he continued, "Drink up. And could you bring over one of those boxes? I'll pretend they're extremely stale, over-salted naan."

Dana collected two bottles and a box, handing one of each over before settling gingerly at the edge of the mattress. Her nose didn't visibly wrinkle, bless her. "Is that all they've given you?" she asked. "Just the crackers, this whole time?"

"Yeah. Better than nothing, I suppose." John focused on opening the box and one of the plastic sleeves inside, feeling her eyes on him. The fluorescents probably highlighted every sag of skin, every jagged edge round his scars. "Are you all right?" he asked more quietly, trying to divert her attention somewhat. "They haven't hurt you?"

"I'm fine. Better than you, I expect." She sipped from her bottle. It seemed a gesture of nervous habit, rather than thirst. There was a smear of something along her left index finger—mascara. Her eyes were utterly dry, if sunken and tired. "Why are we here?" she asked suddenly. "Really."

John glanced at her sidelong, teeth tugging the edge of the wrapper. A whiff of her scent curled in his nostrils: unsuppressed omega. It was a bit surprising for a mother of four, but hardly unheard of. He chose his words carefully. "Collateral. It's nothing to do with you, or with me, actually. We're just the lucky ones in the middle."

Dana's face was a picture of incomprehension. "The middle of what?" She gestured to her earpiece sharply. "He's always laughing—he acts like it's a game, talking about killing people."

"It is, for him. But like I said, we're not the ones playing." It wasn't a game for Sherlock, not anymore, but John didn't want to get into a discussion. Details about Moriarty's cruel psychosis would panic Dana, and championing Sherlock might set off Moriarty's temper. John got the crackers open and offered the pack. "Peckish?"

For a moment, Dana looked as though she might ignore the change of subject, but she finally shook her head and downed another nervous sip of her water. "Been sort of queasy all day."

And sitting in a stinking room with an unwashed stranger probably wasn't helping. John ignored the embarrassed flush trying to creep up his neck. Christ. "How long ago was the bad curry?"

"Long enough. It's not that. I don't know, I'm just sore."

John eyed her more closely and noticed a sheen of sweat dotting her hairline. He frowned a bit and opened his mouth to ask after the symptoms, his clinician's mind leaping at the chance to _do_ something vaguely purposeful, but he didn't get the chance. He'd barely drawn breath when Dana jumped off the mattress as though stung by a wasp, spilling her water in her haste.

Moriarty, of course. _"So nice of you to share your water, Johnny-love. We'll be keeping this little breeder to your diet from now on—you can count your calories together, won't that be fun?"_ Dana's fingers curled self-consciously against her rounded belly as she repeated the petty barbs. _"Aw, you're such good friends already. Suppose that can't be helped, now she's seen everything of our John! From the tippy-top down to the family jewels. What a prize."_

John just glared at the far camera, silent and stewing. Moriarty either didn't notice or didn't care, because Dana's parroting didn't miss a beat. _"But ooh, our viewing audience had better have their thinking caps on tight! Intermission's over, boys and girls. Papa Jim's got ever so much fun in store before we get to the big finish. Stay tuned!"_


End file.
